


she’ol

by wehdile



Series: unto the fourth generation [1]
Category: Dead Space, SOMA (Video Game)
Genre: 25th Century Speculation, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Existential Crisis, Gen, M/M, Mild Gore, Past Ellie Langford/Isaac Clarke, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, WAU's Shoddy Construction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7498689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehdile/pseuds/wehdile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a final testament to human tenacity, Simon couldn't have picked out a better place than PATHOS-II to wait out the remainder of his digital immortality. When his monotony is shaken by unlikely visitors from the stars, Simon isn't sure he can accept what either of them have to say or what it might mean for humanity's future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. rephaim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwistaLolita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistaLolita/gifts).



> ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> Inspired by conversation/roleplay with TwistaLolita who this fic is gifted to of two Cool science fiction series being mashed together in the most absurd- and eventually gay- crossover this side of the Andromeda Galaxy.

Catherine is gone.

Simon is gone.

Or at least, one version is. Simon doesn’t realize this at first. He’s not aware of much amid the electric hum of the diving suit’s hard reboot that draws him back to consciousness about as gently as getting hit by a truck. His internal clock tells him it's been three days and that's confusing for two reasons: he doesn't have an internal clock and he's been here for _three days_. Out of all the bizarre things Simon has seen an unexpected built in function isn't too surprising. He had no idea about the flashlight and it had still been there, just like the rest of him. Then came a third, unpleasant realization: he's still in the chair at Omnicron.

“Did it work?” Silence, aside from a dull hum of overhead lights. “Catherine?”

His head hurts, lenses heavy and head fuzzy with static. A bit like waking up from a hangover on a Saturday night after one too many drinks, though he hasn’t been on a drinking binge since college...or so he thinks. His human memories seem a distant memory, a lifetime separated so far apart from his current reality that they might as well be a dream—a nightmare.

Simon struggles to stand and, predictably, his knee give on the first step. After three days of sitting around it’s no wonder his muscles are stiff, joints locked up. The earlier surge of power straight to his battery couldn’t have helped. Hands find and squeeze both armrests tight, and it’s all he can do not to collapse on the floor in a heap. Scuffed tiles swim in and out of focus, one heel foot braced against the footrest, the other sprawled out haphazardly across the floor.

“This- this isn’t funny, Catherine. Why aren’t you saying anything?”

It’s the silence that spurs his efforts to stand again. Maybe she's shorted out, just to be restarted and then they can have a good laugh at this little misunderstanding. Arching his back until the bottom of his sprawled foot makes contact with the ground, Simon propels his body up and forward with both arms. He’s on his feet for a second then his balance is gone and he’s floundering to hold on to the door frame, curses flying out under his breath. Simon forces a laugh that cracks static around the edges, gaze moving to where Catherine should be plugged in.

“You didn’t tell me this would hurt so...bad...ly…”

It was a mistake to look up. The...scene that greets him isn’t particularly morbid in of itself, not by human standards. No blood (just structure gel) stained tiles or gut (just broken machinery) strewn about. Just a power suit slumped against the airlock doors, hand clutched tight about the bright red of an Omnitool. Simon surged forward, tripping over his feet at each step right up until he falls to his knees besides the body. He stares at the caved in face plate, broken glass framing the damaged robot face inside, then dares to look down at the gouge across the suit’s chest plate that reaches all the way down to the corpse inside.

He waves a hand in front of the power suit’s face. “Hello?” A gentle touch and then nudge of its arm confirms Simon’s suspicions that, whoever was inside isn’t anymore. It must have belonged to the Simon that won the coin toss, the Simon who descended into the Abyss with Catherine in tow and left him behind.

Anger floods him and he wants nothing more than to strike out, grab Other Simon by the shoulders and demand why, why, why did you leave me here to wake up alone? He doesn’t have the strength to do that and remains trembling on his knees, muscles tensed for a fight that plays out only in his mind. Leaving him alive was fucking selfish, plain and simple. Simon knows for a fact that Other Simon didn’t want the weight of killing him on his conscience because he is Simon. They both are or were, in Other Simon’s case.

“Good riddance,” he breathes and starts the next second as something shrieks from the other side of the airlock, alerted by his voice. He jumps, scrambled back as the thing lets loose cacophony of wails that he swears are littered with garbled English. It sends his vision glitching that worsens as fists pound against metal in a desperate wail of despair or maybe anger. Such differentiation is impossible to make when static garbled his senses. He sits, hands clamped over the sides of his helmet and gaze trained on the floor, waits until the pounding stops to uncurl his body. His breathing evens in the silence and his heart slowly stops racing until he’s clear headed enough to put the pieces together: Other Simon lured the monster into the airlock and sealed it within. Whether or not he managed to launch the ARK...there’s not enough evidence for success or failure but Simon desperately hopes he succeeded even though the idea of Other Simon and Catherine getting to experience paradise among the stars stirs up an ugly jealousy within him.

It was supposed to be him and Catherine who were going to get onto the ARK, not a copy masquerading as Simon. He gazes into the broken face, reflection caught in the larger shards of glass that ring the inner rim and wants so badly to hate his other self. But there isn’t enough fuel to keep that jealousy burning, not with the truth of what a brain scan really did so clearly laid out before him. There was never any coin toss. It was just a copy of himself put into a new body while he himself remained behind. Simon laughs and sits back on his heels, hands clenched into fists on his knees. God...what a fucking idiot he’d been but Catherine hadn’t clarified what was about to happen. Maybe she thought he understood.

Catherine. Simon eyes drop to the Omnitool on Other Simon’s belt, reaching out when he recognizes the WAU infused cortex chip of Catherine Chun. Holding it close to his chest he half staggers to the console on his left and plugs her in. When nothing happens he takes her out, puts her back in again and stares at the dark screens, urging her silently to _please come back, please don’t leave me alone down here_.

”Guess you were right, Catherine,” he whispers to the Omnitool, “all that reality of continuity stuff was just a bunch of bullshit.” He touches her burnt out cortex chip and can almost feel the tired smile on his nonexistent face. “Sorry I was such a fucking idiot. I hope... I hope Other Simon managed to launch the ARK.” _I hope you didn't die for nothing._

Simon turns to take a closer look at Other Simon, having to squint in order to discern the dark shape of a cortex chip behind the stem of the robot head. There’s no way he can salvage the body, too far mutilated by claws and stiff from rigor mortis. Yet Other Simon might still be alive within the cortex chip and he can’t just, leave his other self trapped for eternity. Whether or not Other Simon was thinking of only himself or both of them by luring the monster into the airlock, Simon has to try. He has nothing else to lose. He hesitates, gathering the willpower to reach into the helmet where his fingers search for that familiar, rectangular shape. Groping around Other Simon’s head almost seems like desecration, a feeling not helped when his hand reaches too low and brushes against cool, decayed flesh.

” _Uck_.” He wipes his fingers on the inside of the helmet and redirects his search to the back of the eye stalks, forced to contort his wrist in order to pull the cortex chip free. “Shit!” he hisses as, with a sharp tug, the cortex chip comes free and snaps in two.”Goddamnit! Fuck!” Simon yanks his hand out and stares in disbelief at the broken cortex chip sitting in his palm, shards of green motherboard spilling out between his fingers onto the tiled floor.

 _I killed him._ His hand trembles, mind thrown back to poor Amy who died right before his eyes as he unplugged her from the shuttle terminal. He’d never mentioned to the Catherine, rationalized away the act but the end result was still the same: he’d killed her, and now he’d killed Simon. _How much more can you fuck up?_ , his mind whispers in accusing tones. _Haven’t you done enough?_ Simon slides the ruined cortex chip back into the helmet, words of apology caught in the vice of his throat before he stands, still shaking with the shock

Simon steps back into the hallway and closes the door. ”I’m sorry,” he says to the metal, disgust and shame for his clumsiness burned deep into his hoarse apology. Simon’s only able to shut his eyes for only a moment in a minute moment of silence before his drive to survive kicks back into gear. The empty hallways amplify his footsteps as he hurries out of Omnicron, sorrow eclipsed by fear which prickles on the back of his neck long after he’s jimmied the airlock open.

Only once he’s on his way out of Omnicron does Simon realize he has no idea where to go. No idea what to do. No plan whatsoever now that humanity has been saved from total extinction.

Standing alone with just the gentle sway of seaweed at his feet and soft work lights in the distance that filters through the gloom should make him feel calm. Instead tranquility serves only to heighten his senses, suffocate him with the knowledge that he is alone, utterly and totally alone with no one to turn to. Not even someone to talk to. There’s a film over his senses, muffling the world until he feels like he might actually be suffocating. Can he suffocate without lungs? Miles of the ocean hover around him, and it seems laughable that this frail body hasn’t already collapsed under its immense pressure. Simon’s legs buckle and for a long time he stays that way, hunched over, fingers buried knuckle deep in the sandy sea floor as if the current might carry him away at any moment.

What’s a robot to do at the end of the world?

He walks. It’s the only thing to do. Keep moving and he’s sure to stumble on something to do, something to distract him from the crushing loneliness of being left behind. Forgotten. Abandoned.

The working Omnitool he salvaged off Other Simon means he can go just about anywhere so long as the machinery holds out. It hurts to replace Catherine with Helper Jane but she’s gone, fried down to every last circuit from whatever Other Simon managed to accomplish down in the abyss. A part of him hopes her self, her real self, somehow, made it onto the ARK to live out a blissful eternity among the stars. It’s a hope he repeats to himself as he buries her cortex chip outside Theta besides a cluster of vibrant purple coral. Simon muses on how this might be the last human burial performed on the planet before shuffling back inside Theta.

And…that’s how it is for a while. He 'lives’ in Theta, aimlessly traveling between stations at first to salvage parts for maintenance and then to collect every scrap of humanity he can find. Photos, letters, trinkets, books all enter his new collection in what he knows is halfhearted attempt to preserve his own version of humanity. It’s nowhere as sophisticated as the schematics of the ARK but, provided some inch of PATHOS-II stays water tight, it’ll last forever. A testament to humanity’s last stand in the form of a museum 200 meters under the sea with Simon as its sole curator. He even dares to venture back to Omnicorn, nerves heightened as he packs his arms filled with human memorabilia as the monster behind the door sobs and cries to no one.

Simon can relate to that despair.

Finally a break in routine arrives. It may have been a day, weeks, months or longer since something interesting happened. All that matters is that something happens and Simon is around to witness the aftermath. Out on a mundane scouting 'mission’ (read: chore) on the newly ‘hacked’ zeppelin, something new looms out of the gloom that catches Simon off guard. Something big. He changes the course to investigate with the idea that it must be a downed satellite before realization creeps up on him that whatever it might be is too big for a satellite. That it looks an awful lot like a spaceship and that it’s intact.

Mostly intact, Simon amends for the closer he pilots the Zeppelin the more debris he can see littered around what must be the crash site and within that lies the ship. A massive, cylinder shaped craft with a strange ribbed midsection that looks too short and jagged to be the rest of the ship. Resting on its side in the sand, particles still swirling around in fresh clouds, Simon can guess the crash was fairly recent. He’s no mechanic and he’s just barely scraped together the knowledge needed to fix PATHOS-II’s mechanical issues. Simon informs the Zeppelin to land besides the front, cockpit esque portion of the ship. He’s too excited by this novelty to just wait and, in a moment of rash impulse, vaults the gate before it has a chance to lower and sends up his own cloud of sand.

He weaves his way through the broken parts, stopping once or twice to examine parts. If this is a spaceship it’s nothing like the ones NASA used to launch into space, lacking any sleek aerodynamic curves or tapered points that Simon associates with space stuff. Even in the ocean lighting he can see the colors are all dull browns and grays as if it was just thrown together without a care for aesthetic. Or maybe aliens just have a different sense of style. Simon gives up that trail of thought and presses on further into the debris field, finding his path more and more blocked by the bulky shape of what must be the front part of the ship. It’s the only intact part left and his curiosity finds him standing before an airlock with a touch activated hologram. No Omnitool required.

By some stroke of a miracle the airlock works, parts used to filtering in an atmosphere now groaning under the strain of having to pump out seawater. It gives Simon time to take in his surroundings, examine the unfamiliar architecture. He remembers once reading that the conditions at the bottom of the sea were approximate to those found in space, for proof of that he need look no further than the chamber he stands in. Function wise it’s uncannily similar to the Dive Rooms of PATHOS-II yet lacks the miscellaneous sea life he’s grown used to seeing growing out of cracks in walls and pipes. That lack of life makes him feel totally out of his element, a reminder that this ship really is from outer space. A real life spaceship.

“It’s just a ship, Simon.” He fingers the Omnitool clipped to his belt as if it could ever be a suitable weapon. “A ship definitely not filled with aliens ready to eat your face.”

Unaffected by his weak pep talk, Simon frantically waves his hand in front of the access panel once the water finally drain away from around his ankles. It opens slowly but it opens and greets Simon with total darkness. He gives his eyes time to adjust and sees a corridor barely lit by red emergency lights situated where the wall meets floor. A warning siren blares, interrupted only by a droning voice that warns about imminent failure of hull integrity and calm instructions on where to find the escape pods.

“...Yeah. Straight out of a horror movie.” Simon swallows a wad of fear and, placing one foot in front of the other, moves out into the hallway. Nothing charges out of the darkness to attack but he turns on his flashlight all the same and follows the warning lights to their source; the cockpit. That’s where comms must be and, with them, the chance to contact someone, anyone who might still be alive up there. He passes doors bent inward by the pressure of the ocean, unnerved by his own damn footsteps that echo back off the walls that makes it sound as if someone is following him - which is stupid. He’s alone, not in Alien or it’s two shitty sequels. 

He finds the doorway of the cockpit wide open, the door lying a little ways down the hallway as if blasted off its frame by some explosion. That’s troubling because when he steps into the cockpit, he doesn’t see any scorch marks or stuff you’d associate with a boom. Strange looking chairs and equipment are strewn haphazardly across the floor, sure, but nothing looks burned in this dim light. He kicks aside the twisted stand of a chair, approaches the dim console that doesn’t respond to any of his button pushing or switch flicking. Even the absurd joystick remains locked in place no matter how much Simon wrestles with it.

”Do aliens not label their shit? How the hell am I supposed to find anything?!” He brings his fist down on the useless hunk of metal, exhaling hard until his anger dissipates. Unable to make sense of the button and switches functions, it’s another goddamn dead end. No radio contact means he’s still basically stranded at the bottom of the sea in a lab of delusional robots and half dead humans. Simon wants to scream, maybe cry, finds the energy for none.

He let his hopes for something new get the better of him instead of getting used to his new role as humanity’s last historian. “Great,” he throws up his hands, turns his back on the console. “Just great. Maybe there’s some junk worth salvaging on this wreck...” He swings the flashlight in a wide arc across the room, doing a double pass when the light glints off something reflective in a nearby chair.

Simon’s breath catches in his throat at the sight, a wave of giddiness and shock rushing over him.

There’s someone in the pilot seat.


	2. gehinnom

Time seems to freeze for Simon, breath catching in his throat as he struggles to process what he’s seeing. Upper body slumped over a strange console; half falling out of a seat is a real life person. A real, _living_ human being. There’s more to see yet Simon doesn’t, can’t focus, too consumed by what this mystery person represents: humanity must have survived in some small capacity.

That doesn’t explain where this person came from, sure. He knows better than to question good fortune. Simon inches closer to the person, unsure of how to proceeds. The first thing to do would be to check if this person is actually alive although, now that he looks closer, he sees that’ll be hard to do. Clad in a bulky, plated spacesuit straight out a sci-fi movie it’s difficult for Simon to discern the subtle rise and fall of the person’s chest. Instead of the stark NASA white he expected, the spacesuit is a dull brown with some sort of...plating that reminds Simon of armor. It brings to mind the question of why would an astronaut needs armor that he dismisses immediately.

He needs to focus and save this person.

“Uh, hello? Can you hear me?” A hand waved in front of the spacesuit’s helmet elicits no response despite the green light emanating from within. Not that he expected one anyway. Simon steps back to rack his brain for the next step, ticking off the steps of what to do before the ambulances arrive (if only!). This person is breathing (for now) and unconscious. Check. Unconscious people aren’t supposed to be moved since their neck or back could be broken…unless they’re in a dangerous environment. Looking around, it’s not a stretch to decide a crashed spaceship at the bottom of the ocean on the verge of collapsing on itself fits the definition of ‘dangerous environment’.

“Right. OK. Let’s get you out of here, whatever your name is,” he says to the unconscious person and bends down to put his arms around the astronaut’s middle. Taking a deep breath Simon lifts with his legs to haul the astronaut out of the chair—

—before his arms give out and he drops the person straight on his foot.

“Motherfuck-!” On the verge of a pained scream, he chokes back his curse and, with considerable effort, yanks his foot free. Metal clattering against metal echoes in the spacious cockpit as Simon grabs his aching foot with a muffled curse. Leaning back against one of the console he exhales through his teeth in a drawn out hiss of pain and glares at the prone body on the floor.

“You weigh a fucking ton buddy, you know that?!” Simon sighs, straightens up to scan the room for something to help him out. A cart or maybe a length of cord but, predictably, there’s only rubble and scrap in the small circle of light from his flashlight. He doesn’t have enough time to thoroughly comb through the mess. The astronaut is heavy, heavier than Simon ever expected although now, turning his flashlight on the suit’s reflective metallic armor, he guesses he should have suspected as much. “Hindsight’s 20/20, huh... Not that I ever expected to find someone down here so, don’t blame me for any bumps and bruises you end up with, ok?” He forces a laugh that falls flat in the silence which digs paranoia into his skull, almost convinces Simon he hears someone– or something– shifting in the darkness.

Fear prickling the back of his neck, Simon doesn’t wait for the ache in his toes to subside. He bends down to wrap his arms more firmly around the astronaut’s middle, mindful to lift with his legs this time.

It’s a grueling journey to the airlock. Simon has to pause every few feet to catch his breath, muscles straining to just hold the astronaut up at each stop before he squares back his shoulder and presses on. Part of Simon might feel bad for how he has to carry this guy, legs splayed out with heels dragging on the floor and the way his head lolls freely, if he weren’t so damn heavy. They’ll both have to deal with the consequences when, _if_ , they get out alive. But judging by the stuttering lights and water leaking from under sealed doors, they doesn’t have long before the whole place collapses. Even worse than the sights are the sounds, which only amplify his initial fears that they aren’t alone. The astronaut’s soles scrape on the floor, the low drone of the warning sirens, the ever increasing frequency of groaning metal from all around him – it’d be enough to make even a man like his father paranoid.

In fact…it’s straight out of a horror movie soundtrack. A shiver running up his spine, Simon dares a glance over his shoulder. Yet he sees no aliens leaping out at him, no shambling WAU monsters emerging from the shadows. Relief floods him, forced laughter coming out garbled from his speaker under the strain. “If I get attacked by a facehugger, I’m blaming you,” he grumbles with no response. More for his comfort then the astronaut’s who is probably concussed and down for the count.

In the midst of all his huffing and puffing, Simon has the chance to take a good look at the bizarre gauge on the back of the suit. Set right over the spine, it looks like it should be filled up with something; maybe oxygen? Then he notices the light inside is low, nearly at the bottom. “Oh… That’s not great.” He has to assume it measures some sort of vital status, maybe heartbeat? Or just over all condition? Either way, unless aliens— or future humans— have altered what colors are supposed to mean, a red light at the bottom is decidedly bad.

“Don’t worry spaceguy, I’ll get you fixed up. I’m no doctor but…” Another laugh, flatter this time as he wonders how much medical experience Catherine had. He’d give anything to have her back even if she hated him for being so stupid, so selfish. At least she’d have had a better idea on how to treat injuries then a drop-out from Toronto. Simon takes a proper breather in the airlock, propping his unconscious companion against the wall. Extra weight alleviated and inner doors shut, he presses down on his grief. Compresses it until the sensation of crying subsides and he can breathe without a knot in his chest.

“Sorry.” He turns to the console on the outer door, hand raised to activate the mechanism. “This is the most exercise I’ve gotten in, well, a while.” And it’s the most he’s talked in months albeit to an unconscious audience. _Maybe he’ll hate me_ , a thought that quickly flees Simon’s mind when his gaze drops to the sound of water. Water that’s quickly flooding the airlock, already up to his knees by the time Simon’s brain registers the danger of depressurization. 

He barely manages to eke out an “Oh fuck” before the airlock makes the choice for him. There’s not even a warning in the form of groaning metal or rivets bursting free from their casing. Where there once was the door there’s now the ocean rushing in to meet Simon full force. Swept up by the sudden cascade, his hands flail wildly for purchase before his head connects with the wall and a crack darts across his faceplate. _That’s bad._ He gives the glass a ginger touch, loose worry of what might happen to his cortex chip if it’s engulfed by sea water passing through the forefront of his mind. Strange that it doesn’t trouble him, his possible death.

A persistent beeping catches Simon’s attention as the water settles, a small current still drawing in swirls of sand around his ankles. With care he pushes away from the wall to scan for the source, view distorted by the newly formed crack that splits his world into two diagonal halves. Still he can discern it’s from the astronaut who floats listlessly, upside down in the water. Not breathing. “Shit.” Simon hurries to the man’s side and flips him right side up, keeping a vice grip on the plated armor—and his blood runs cold when he turns the astronaut over.

“ _Shit_.” There’s a new gauge that’s appeared, reminiscent of a hologram. Even an idiot could figure out what the slowly shrinking blue bar meant by words ’O2 LOW’ suspended above.

“ _Shit_!” It comes out a scream, cold panic shrinking Simon’s world to fear. Fear of loneliness. Fear of isolation. Fear of killing _another_ person because he’s too stupid to save anyone. Blackness creeps at his periphery and something electronic tells Simon he’s hyperventilating. _How? I don’t have a mouth._ The question flits away on a ragged exhale, fingers dug into a plate’s sharp corners. _Focus_ , he tells himself in the same moment he also thinks: _Give up. It’s easier to do nothing and let him die._ That terrible, selfish thought breaks Simon from his trance because it isn’t what Catherine would have done. And it isn’t what he’ll do either. Still shaken and gripped by tunnel vision from what adrenaline remains, he searches not his memory but his data banks for a solution. It comes almost instantaneously, subroutines running far faster than organic nerves ever could.

Oxygen tanks. Of course he has oxygen tanks. He’s a damn diving suit! Better yet he just knows to twist the check knob shut tight before disconnecting the hose from the tank. A shrill chirp sounds within his own suit which Simon has to fight to ignore, further discomfort sown by the abrupt lack of air to inhale. But he knows he doesn’t need to breathe, discovered it the hard way when his tank ran empty on a zeppelin trip. As before there’s momentary panic when his throat fills up with gel, making Simon choke until it erupts from his mouth in a hoarse, wet cough. A quick clearing of the throat and the world comes back into crystal clear focus.

Concentration returned, he searches for a place to hook the hose in, finds it after seconds that seem to drag on for an eternity and cranks opens the check valve. Simon is certain the astronaut is dead, brain starved too long of oxygen, so he outright cheers when there’s a ragged gasp behind the suit. “YES!” He pumps his fist, stamps his feet, thanks whatever God might still exist for his luck. Mental exhaustion hits Simon, forces him to bend over with hands on his knees while the stakes catch up with him. But he can’t linger, the oxygen won’t last forever.

Coiling the hose, he slots his arm into the loop and puts the same arm around the astronaut’s waist. It’s a gift he’s still unconscious though Simon catches a groan beneath the green lights, freezes until he hears only silence. Better for both of them if he didn’t have to explain…everything right now. Luckier still that he’s lighter with the water to carry half the weight, allowing Simon to practically strolls across the sandy bottom to the Zeppelin. Setting the man down besides the console, Simon sets the destination for Theta with a sigh of relief.

Things were finally starting to look up.

* * *

Simon waits.

Simon had gotten exceptionally good at waiting as of late. A few hours was nothing compared to the weeks and months spent alone with only his thoughts as company. Once inside Theta he had disconnected the hose and managed to pry the stranger— a man in his late 50s— out of his spacesuit after working at an invisible seam in the fabric (while damaging some interlocking metal in the process). Unable to lift the suit, it had been left in the entryway while Simon had hauled him onto a spare bed where he lays now, head propped up by a few spare pillows. There’s not much in the way of medical supplies at Theta, no need to collect bandages for himself when WAU sludge was a good substitute, and Simon isn’t willing to risk a ride to Omnicron. Not when the man was injured, definitely concussed by his dilated pupils, making the chances of hurting himself high if left alone.

Those are his fears anyway. It’s a persistent anxiety that sits in his chest like a vice while his hands are busy with the Omnitool for lack of anything to do. Occasionally he gets up to pace the length of the room, feet always drawing him back to his seat besides the bed. Now that he isn’t racing to get him unsuited, Simon can see he isn’t actually that old. The combination of dark circles under his eyes, gaunt cheeks and uneven stubble certainly give him that ‘been through hell and back’ look.

Simon can’t help but wonder what could age an astronaut so drastically but he’d never been to space. Maybe the cramped quarters and isolation made emotions run high, prompted fist fights between nerds even. He chuckles at the thought of bespectacled nerds in lab coats going at each other than quiets as the stranger stirs and he’s brought back to reality.

It’s hard to think of anything else while he waits.

“…You lucked out, you know,” he comments to fill the silence. The only reason he knew what to do was because of Ashley and her insistence on correcting medical inaccuracies whenever the gang watched those cheesy ER drama shows. She’d even convinced him to take a few first aid classes just in case she wasn’t around to save the day. Ashley… Simon’s gaze flits to the floor, hands clasped together with the Omnitool between them. He hasn’t thought of her in…a while. The exact length escapes Simon before he recalls and checks his internal clock: 91 days. 91 long days of time slipping past him like water, mind filled with nothing other than finding unimportant objectives to complete.

Looking at the stranger, he would smile if he still had a face. Helping this man at least gives Simon a purpose and even hope for reconnecting with humanity. Now if he would just wake up… He starts to get up to pace again when the man stirs, and opens his eyes which sets Simon’s heart racing. Omnitool discarded, Simon stands as close as he can to the bedside, half bent over to lay fingers on his neck to check his pulse. 

“Carver?” The man coughs and pushes himself up onto his elbows, brushing Simon’s hand away with a wince. Eyes squinted, he holds up a hand to block the light with a face screwed up in confusion. “Ellie?”

”Uh…” Simon hesitates, leaning back to give him some room. He doesn’t like the way the man’s face is starting to twist into an expression like defiance. “I’m Simon. I don’t know where, um, Carver and Ellie are— Hey!” Hands outstretched he lunges forward to push the astronaut back down, struggling to hold him there. Even injured this guy’s no joke with a boy more like a manual laborer then a nerdy science type. Muscular or not, he still concussed and settles back into the covers with a resigned glare. “You’re concussed and in no shape to be running around,” Simon explains in that patient but stern doctor voice Ashley liked to mock, and slowly steps back before removing his hands. “So just, relax, OK?” 

The man looks him up and down, as if he’s assessing Simon as some kind of threat. “That’s not the problem. My partner, John Carver, was on the _Terra Nova_. I have to find him.” Another attempt to sit up ends with him sinking back down with a groan, a hand reaching up to touch the bandages wound around the gash across his forehead. “I really am concussed, huh. Wouldn’t be the first time… Name’s Isaac Clarke.” This seems to strike Isaac as funny and he laughs bitterly before his expression becomes serious. “What kind of ship is this?”

All business, Simon notes with a touch of annoyance that Isaac doesn’t sound more…grateful for being rescued. “We’re not on a ship, we’re at Theta. I saw your ship when I was out and it was really banged up.” He rubs the back of his head, light glinting off the crack on his faceplate. “The airlock blew but I rescued you, I guess?” A nervous laugh. “Guess that’s what happens when you bring spaceship to the bottom of the ocean, huh?”

“Theta—? So I’m at the bottom of the ocean after I crashed…oh God. It must’ve been because of the moons. God damn it!” Isaac slams his fist down on the bed and Simon shifts slightly, watchful for any move to lash out. Fortunately Isaac calms though his brow is knit in concentration or more likely, frustration. “How long have I been out? What kind of ship is this?”

“Moons… Maybe you really do have brain damage, Earth only has one moon.” Isaac shoots Simon a look he can’t place so he just shrugs and sits back. “You’ve been out for a few hours. And ship was, well, I don’t think it was your whole ship. Just the front cockpit.”

Isaac shakes his head, rolling onto his side and up onto his elbow to meet Simon’s eye. “No, the brethren—” Overtaken by silence he shuts his eyes with a sigh, rubs his stubble as if composing his thoughts. “That’s not what I meant. But what happened to the front? You said the airlock blew but was there someone else in it?”

Silence, Simon’s body tense with the truth he has to deliver. “No… Not that I saw. It’s probably flooded now so I don’t, uh, know if anyone would have…” He clears his throat and begins to stand, fully intending to give Isaac some space to process. “I’m sorry.”

The response from Isaac isn’t what he expects; a curt nod before a soft ‘fuck’ escapes from under his breath. “Fuck!” He repeats louder, slamming his fist against the nightstand. There’s a flurry of blankets being thrown off and Isaac tries to stand, wincing with a white knuckle grip on one of the shelves. “I need to try. Can you help me look for him? Pleas…”

Simon recognizes that new expression and grabs the waste basket, shoving it under Isaac as he vomits with a horrible choking noise. But he does sit down, gripping the plastic bin tight until his dry heaves subside. Simon wordlessly takes the bin from him and sets it down just next to the nightstand. “Look,” he starts, guiding Isaac to lie back down. “I’m no doctor but…going out into the ocean in your condition doesn’t seem like a fantastic idea.” The last thing he wants is for the first sane human, once untouched by the WAU, to go running off and get himself killed. It’s absolutely selfish and he feels it as a tight wave of guilt in the pit of his stomach when he pulls the covers back up over Isaac. “How about this: I go looking for him and you just, sit tight. What does he look like?”

There’s some protest from Isaac, incoherent grumbling that Simon doesn’t quite catch. Relenting at last, he sighs and looks Simon in the eye (though Simon can’t help but notice that Isaac’s gaze flickers oddly over his faceplate). “Big guy, about 6’3”, really strong, has a scar from the corner of his left eye down to his mouth.” Isaac points to indicate the location on his own face which holds its own fair share of minuscule scars. “You can’t miss him.”

“6’3”, big guy with a scar right here,” Simon repeats and mimics the gesture with a tap to his faceplate. “Got it.” Omnitool back in hand, he’s nearly out the door before it occurs to him that Isaac might still wander. Sure, his spacesuit is banged up and Simon has the only working Omnitool but an astronaut (if that’s what he actually is) would be smart enough to hotwire a door. “Isaac…” Simon starts, prompting Isaac to glance his way. “Just uh, stay put OK? You’re concussed and it’d be uh, dangerous for you to be out of bed. Please.”

He shuts the door before Isaac can get a word in edgewise, considers but decides against initiating the lock. His concussion should get him to stay put. Probably. Simon walks back to where Isaac’s discarded suit lies and stops besides it to stare at the massive airlock doors. An actual, real live person just crashed landed at PATHOS-II. That means the human race isn’t extinct. And the fact that there might be another one, this Carver fellow, nearby? It should put urgency in his step yet he remains rooted to the spot, fingers running over the edge of the Omnitool’s handle. That cowardly part of him suggest he could always lie to Isaac, say that he found nothing and not even bother going. Simon is exhausted, wants to shut his eyes and soak in the hope of humanity’s continued existence.

“…Dammit.” No, he can’t do that. It wouldn’t be the right to lie though it’d be easier than going back to that deathtrap. Catherine wouldn’t have it and Ashley? She’d already be out the front doors with a first aid kit and power tools. Willpower found he passes through the airlock, welcoming the rush of water over his head like a cover to shroud him. Out he was, partially, in his element. _Besides_ , he tells himself on the jogs to the waiting Zeppelin, _this is finally something to do. Something to shake up the status quo of some robot puttering around at the bottom of the ocean._

_…If Carver’s even alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a touch late to my original deadline but better late then never. I may come back to edit this chapter but I wanted to post it in the meantime. Isaac's dialogue is courtesy of Twista with some edits for story flow. Enjoy! ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ


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